My uncle died in the 2nd November 2014. He had carrot ginger hair and very blue eyes.
He had been battling skin cancer for less than a year.

And he died.

I didn't grow up very close to him. I lived in another city and then in another country. I saw him every Summer, although, and  he would pay my mom and I visits sometimes over the years.

He had four children. A wife. A home.
And he died.

I remember he was a very good-humoured guy. In the pictures of my memories, he was always smiling. He liked pork and pineapples pizzas, because once he came over with a 19'' inch one and ate half by himself. I recall this time that I was in his bike and the carburetor burned my leg. He put cold water in it and tickled me.

I cried in my lover's arm when I found out. My stepdad told me in a cold tone, as if it wasn't gonna make any difference to me. Well, he was wrong. It did affect me - a lot. He was the first person to die close to me. I had lost my 7-year-old dog a year before.

My heart ached for my mother. She was a mess: he was her little brother. Tears still taint my face at this thought and I keep thinking; if it hurts me this much, I can't imagine her pain.

On the 18th, he would've completed one more year within us. Instead, he completed almost a year in peace.

I'm terrified life is trying to prepare me to a closer death. I'm not naive - I know these things happen - but I sincerely hope it doesn't happen to me.

I hope that there are many pork and pineapple pizzas wherever you are and that you're looking out for all of us.